atonement
by Nylex
Summary: Two men. One room. Ninety hours of therapy, over the course of two years. Snape has things he'd rather stay hidden; Mr. Clarke is determined to see this through, now.
1. Session One

**Please Read:**

The style this story is written in may be confusing at first. I'm attempting to emulate a one-sided conversation between Severus and his therapist, Mr. Clarke, with no action or quotations at all. What specific questions Mr. Clarke asks you'll have to figure out for yourself, based on Snape's answers. It's just Snape, in his own words, being Snape.

Enjoy.

* * *

**atonement  
**[1]

* * *

Professor Severus Tobias Snape. Take a seat, if you wish.

I would extend to you the same courtesy if you were not being strong-armed into coming here. The Ministry's petition was very specific, unfortunately. It appears as though we will be seeing rather a lot of each other—once a week for ninety weeks.

I dislike talking about myself.

I can assure you, everything you would need to know about me has already been written, either by the _Prophet_ or other, more credible sources. There is very little about my background that people do not know, or pretend that they know. With a bit of research you can save on questions, and I can spend our weekly sessions brewing instead of talking.

What would you like to know about Dumbledore? He was a well-respected individual, unorthodox and relatively insane, while remaining good-natured and I believe he meant well, through it all. He gave me a chance when not many other people would, and for that, I owe him my gratitude.

Yes, I killed him. Under his orders. If this _therapy session_ is to turn into an interrogation, might I recommend you read the transcript of the Wizengamot's Veritaserum examination? I was unable to lie then, but within the confines of my own house, within my own wards, I am under no such control. Consider yourself fortunate that I am currently unable to use Occlumency. Otherwise this would be a rather one-sided conversation, don't you think?

Your handwriting is atrocious. And you spelled 'defensive' incorrectly.

If you do not wish for me to read your notes, I would suggest disappearing ink. But judging from the wear and tear on your jumper cuffs, I can only imagine a Galleon for a bottle must be too high of a price. No matter. Poverty is an ugly thing, isn't it? It clings to your soul and the _shame_ of it lingers, long past your financial strain. Even when money is plentiful you still remember hungry nights and cold suppers, don't you? They're not easy memories.

Of course I speak from experience. It was not an _insult_, merely a remark.

Oh, _yes_, let's talk about _The Chosen One_, shall we? The great and magnificent _Potter_. I think little of him—he survives only by the fortune of the universe and the considerable talent of those around him. Without these safety nets he would have been destroyed as a babe.

Does it _sound_ as though I mean him any ill will?

Ridiculous. I wish nothing of the kind. The Dark Lord was a tyrant and a monster, there is little doubt about that, and the world is better off with one less terrorist. While I have my own personal issues with Potter and his friends, the quote - "Golden Trio" – end quote, as I believe the media is calling them, I remain an ever staunch supporter of his actions against the Dark Lord. I merely wish the _Prophet_ would recognize those around him, and realize that there was very little Potter himself accomplished without aid.

Hah! I believe the media has covered _my own_ side of the story well enough, don't you think? I would prefer less attention. But the Order of Phoenix, the professors at Hogwarts, and Dumbledore himself, they could all deserve more credit than the worshipped Potter. To hear the papers talk, Potter alone defended Hogwarts and was killed in the line of battle, setting of an explosion that defeated the Dark Lord and brought him back to life. It's ridiculously blown out of proportion.

Bitter? Me? _No_. Wherever did you get that idea?

Clearly you do not appreciate sarcasm. Few do.

I am bitter for a number of reasons. Life has treated me poorly and in return, I treat others in a similar fashion. I have spent my life protecting an ungrateful and _reprehensible _brat, who stands on the shoulders of his mother's sacrifice; I have had people taken from me, I have killed more people than I wish to count, I have been tortured and tested and _tried_, I have slaved away for a man who did not trust nor like me, and I have given my all to save the Wizarding World. The world is full of bleeding hearts, who _wish_ and _hope_ and _pray_ for a better world, and then there are people like me, who are unafraid to spill blood and see that things get done.

But when the dust settles and the ashes clear, who is put on the pedestals? The ones wearing kid gloves, who shot sparks and held hands and dried _tears_. Not the ones who fought and bled and _died_! What do I receive for my punishments? I receive a bloody _inquisition_ from the Wizengamot and become stripped from my post, my stature, and my life. I must serve ninety hours of community service and undergo _therapy_, because clearly I am some frail damaged being who cannot see past the next day! I have my _scars_, Mister Clarke, and I have long ago learned to _deal with them_! Because that is what one does! At the end of the day you try to forget about what you have done, who you have betrayed, what you have killed, because _that is what happens_!

I am not _ANGRY!_

I am _not_ angry.

You misunderstand me. I do not wish for the stature Potter has. I wish to be left _alone_. Give me back my teaching post, allow me my old quarters, let me study and learn and teach in _peace_. There is knowledge I have left to impart upon the world, and although my students have largely been loathsome, they all contain a bit of my knowledge. My legacy, if you will. I will teach Potions or Defense Against the Dark Arts, I have experience with both, but _no_. The Ministry locks me away in a small flat with no lab or books, with no consideration as to my comforts. I receive a minimum of visitors. I brew in silence, with what abysmal few resources I have. I am not _lonely, _Mister Clarke, for I am a creature of solitude, but I have no _discussion_.

This is hardly a discussion.

Who visits me? Miss Granger, upon occasion. Her self-flagellating little visits are her _penance_, her way of reminding herself that she once believed me the enemy. And in some ways, still does. She amuses me. Potter attempted to visit me once but I threw him out.

Because he is a snotty little upstart, and I had no desire to deal with his cockiness for an afternoon.

Not many others stop past this place. Arthur Weasley, who is seldom interesting and often absentminded. Minerva McGonagall, who is a proud woman to whom I owe a great deal, and it is her visits I enjoy the most.

Minerva is a rival of mine. A greatly judgmental creature to Slytherins, I extended the same courtesy to her Gryffindors. Of all the staff at Hogwarts I believe she trusted me the most, and felt the most betrayed by my apparent disloyalty. But things are not always as they appear, are they? I am…I can admit I am rather fond of Minerva. She is getting on in years, and I will be disheartened to see a world without her in it.

So surprised, Mister Clarke? I have emotions besides bitterness and _sarcasm_.

_Hah!_ You make me laugh. Don't be absurd, there is little love left in me, but I suppose it extends to the final people who show me kindness, being Minerva, and perhaps Miss Granger.

I feel no pity. Others should feel no pity for me. I am no hero, Mister Clarke, and never wish to be called one. There are other "heroes of the war", and I am not one of them, but I wish to be left alone by the Ministry. This so-called _therapy_ will do nothing for me, and little for you.

I believe this is the end of our session, Mister Clarke, you can show yourself out.

* * *

_So, was that too confusing? I reread Catcher in the Rye a few days ago and it made me start writing streams of consciousness, which is a difficult style of writing to emulate. It eventually developed into stories like this—one sided conversations between two people, and you only hear from one side of the story. I hope it's clear enough. Hopefully I'll get better at writing like this. As always I heap boxes of chocolates upon the head of my beta, **araeofsomething**, who thrashed my vagueness and made things much more understandable. **-**_**nylex**


	2. Session Two

**atonement  
**[2]

* * *

Good evening, Mister Clarke.

The scarf? A gift from Miss Granger. She's taken up knitting, the wretched thing stinks of cat hair. I apologize for the chill, this ridiculous old building has pipes which tend to give out when most needed. Keep your coat on, I believe you'll need it.

Hm. Interesting.

Oh, simply that you purchased the Disappearing Ink I suggested. I wonder if that's because you were ashamed I noticed your jumper cuffs? I see now that you're wearing something much newer. And much more…_lurid. _I realize that Christmastime is just around the corner but we are not all so enraptured with the holiday, Mister Clarke.

And the other reason could be that you truly do not wish for me to see what you write. Which is logical. I would no doubt use it against you and you would have to spend meetings on constant alert. Gathering information is a skill which I have not been able to unlearn.

_Must_ we?

Very well. Christmas then. You aren't surprised to find I detest the overstuffed, gluttonous spectacle? Parents going into mountainous debt simply to please their fat, screaming, over-indulged little terrors. And then they tell their children that _no_, they didn't buy the presents, it was an obese man who broke into their homes while they slept and left 'gifts' for them to find.

My Christmases? Despicable. I remember few of them; we never celebrated. Winters were simply something to get through, it was much too cold and we were filthy and poor.

I remember one or two holidays which we celebrated. Most of all, I remember hearing from the other children in school about Saint Nicholas, and running home to ask my mother about him.

My mother's greatest flaw was _kindness_. She told me that, why yes, he was quite real, and he brought presents for good little children. I became wildly excited, naturally, and waited for the day—only to discover that either I was not 'good' enough, or Saint Nicholas had simply taken no notice of our house. I leaned towards the former, as I never considered myself a well-behaved child nor a particularly 'good' one either.

I was wondering when you would ask me that. How did it make me feel? Terrible, I assume. I actually don't remember what I felt. But to a small boy it must have been crushing to know that your family was too indigent to afford Christmas. Saint Nicholas only arrives at rich houses, regardless of their children's behavior.

A good Christmas memory?

…

Once. I went over a friend's house, and I ate dinner.

A little redheaded girl I knew from the playground. As I recall, her older sister was particularly unpleasant to me during the meal, and I exploded the mashed potatoes in her face. Accidentally, of course. Afterwards,we played a few card games and I got a present from the family, a rather nice pocket-watch.

My father confiscated it as soon as I got home, I've no doubt he pawned it for whiskey.

My father was an ill-mannered_, _slovenly drunkard of a man. He regularly beat my mother and had no qualms about striking me whenever he had the whim. I despised him.

Why yes. Yes I do. He was frightened of the magic my mother and I carried through our veins, terrified my mother would suddenly awaken from her stupor and use her wand to turn him into a rabbit or some such nonsense.

I would have done _much_ worse. His temper and presence in my life prevented my magic from manifesting in healthy ways, I was afraid it would burst out of me before I got to Hogwarts. Once I received an unlimited pass to knowledge, my mind began to wander into…the _darker_ bent of magic. . The kind of magic I could use against people like my father.

No. No, I never raised my wand against him, although I got into a brawl with him on my seventeenth birthday. I came home for the summer holidays with my mother in the hospital, due to his brutality, and I gave him a taste of his own medicine.

I threw him down the same flight of stairs he used to break my mother's ribs. Fitting, isn't it? After that I left, and spent the remainder of my holidays as a guest at Malfoy Manor.

Of course I'm calm. There's hardly anything interesting in my childhood, it's all fairly standard poverty and abuse, in varying degrees. My abilities saved me. Hogwarts was a refuge I sorely needed. Ionly wish there had been such a place for my mother. Her unfailing kindness towards all creatures was her downfall, eventually—she thought she could _fix_ my father. Stupid woman.

Are you shivering, Mister Clarke? I suggested you leave on your coat—you clearly did not take my advice.

Oh? The temperature doesn't bother you? Why then, did you shiver?

_Haha!_ Oh, Merlin, thank you for that. Sociopath? Certainly not. Merely controlled. After losing my temper during your last visit, I could afford to be more contained, don't you think? I feel empathy, Mister Clarke. Occlumency allows me to enter other people's thoughts, to escape from my own; don't you think, after seeing continuous horrors, I would feel _some_ shred of sympathy? I do, despite being unable to use my mental abilities to their fullest potential, what with this _handicap_ I'm currently wearing.

What _specific_ people? You demand specificity at the most curious times, Mister Clarke…

I suppose I feel somewhat sympathetic towards Miss Granger. A detestable brat but she tries her hardest, which is an admirable if tiring quality. She reminds me of a small furry terrier, with very sharp teeth and little pink bows. But she comes here once in a while, drenched to the bone and struggling desperately to find a pretense for coming to my flat. Occasionally she brings a Potion's journal with her, for which I am grateful.

Perhaps not empathy. Pity. Yes, just pity. And some slight amusement, I must admit.

I'm not making a very good case for non-sociopathic behavior, am I?

Ah. I've thought of one. Remus Lupin, who was part of the gang who tormented me rather badly while we attended school—his son, Teddy. How old is he now? Two? I feel empathy towards the child, for not so long ago I was in a similar position; alone, without the support of a family, and relying only on strangers for help. No doubt the Potter boy and his cohorts will raise the child, but still. Remus Lupin, I must admit, earned my respect in the final years of his life and I had nothing particularly against his wife, Nymphadora. The boy will have a stressful childhood, much as I did.

My childhood is a very uninteresting topic, Mister Clarke. I wouldn't tell you anything you hadn't heard before from previous clients.

Very _well_. What would you like to know?

The happiest memory…tell me, Mister Clarke, shall I cast a Patronus for you? There are very few happy memories from my childhood, but I suppose there is one or two.

When she was at the playground. I remember her swinging—she liked the swings the best, since she could use her magic and go a little faster, a little farther. Test the boundaries a little to excite her sister. She had beautiful red and gold hair; it would flare out behind her as though she was striking a match.

Her name was Lily Evans. Surely you must have placed her by now.

Yes, I was friends with James Potter's wife. Not during our later years; we were on opposite sides of a bloody and unmerciful war. But when we were children, yes. Our neighborhoods were close, and we share the same playground. I helped her realize her talent as a witch.

We grew apart. My desire for knowledge led me to the wrong crowd, a different lifestyle. She, of course, remained the pillar of purity and scolded me for doing so - then in turn, fell in with the very crowd which caused me so much torment over the years. James Potter was not a kind man to me, Mister Clarke, and his band of rebels even less so.

Of course I don't _resent_ Lily. Far from it. I loved her, after a fashion. An odd way. A…a_ childish_ way, I think. And perhaps I still do, there are many things I would have done differently in my life, and there is a chance we could have remained friends, if nothing more. We made polarizing choices for our lives, and our quests for affection brought us in different directions.

I don't…I would prefer not to discuss Lily with you.

There is absolutely no reason for me to discuss her with you. You have no interest in her, you never knew her personally, and so I would be merely wasting my breath.

You are simply 'interested' in me because the Ministry has forced us both into this situation, although the Ministry must be paying you handsomely, which must ease the sting. I can only imagine how uncomfortable _you_ feel—there, see, I'm not a sociopath after all. I'm just not a pleasant man, am I, Mister Clarke?

One can be _interesting_ and unpleasant at the same time, I must remind you. I notice you keep toying with your wedding ring, are you perhaps thinking of your wife? I do sincerely hope _I_ don't remind you of her in any way. If that is the case, you have my sincere condolences.

Hm. Your wife gives good advice. Tell me, Mister Clarke, how long have you been married?

Three years. Congratulations. Was it a Muggle ceremony?

No? How lovely.

Merlin, no, I never married. Nor do I wish to. My soul is not as black as all that. Ishould never wish to saddle a woman with either my child or my detestable surname. Besides that is the fact that no woman would consensually spend more time than absolutely necessary in the same room as me.

Because I am largely considered a horrible man.

Change? Of course I don't want to _change_. Whatever gave you that idea?

Mister Clarke, your constant mention of_ emotions_ is making me question what you wish to obtain out of all these sessions. I see no real need to make me a 'better man'. That ship sailed many years before you even considered this profession. There are no secrets I am willing to divulge to you, and no scars which keep me from forming relationships with people, albeit unhappy relationships. The Ministry must pay you a handsome some indeed to keep your mouth shut, but I can tell you're trying too hard for _money_. People never apply this much effort for _money_. So what do you expect as an ultimate goal through all of these meetings? Other than the Ministry will finally leave me alone?

Ah. I see. Well, if you are here to 'simply be here for me', then the next time you arrive I suggest you bring something to occupy your time, so I may read in peace.

I see it is half past seven, now, Mister Clarke, we have run a few minutes later than usual. Do take care in the storm, I would hate to explain everything over again to a new therapist if you died of hypothermia.

* * *

_I have to admit I'm loving this story. It just…_feels_ like a story, to me. I'm discovering his thoughts AS I'm writing it, so I'm discovering more than planning, really. _

_As always, **arareofsomething** has my deepest and most sincere thanks. *bows* _**-nylex**


	3. Session Five

**atonement  
**[3]

* * *

You've made your _point_, Mister Clarke. You can put the newspaper down. What do you wish to talk about?

Quite simply I am _bored_. You have come to my house twice now and not said a single word, which would not usually be unwelcome; however, I am out of brewing ingredients and I am unable to obtain them with this _proximity _collar around my neck. I have nothing left to read, and not a soul has visited me in a week's time—my brain is deprived of utterly necessary _stimuli_. You are my only source of entertainment, something to distract me from this choking collar around my neck.

Oh, aren't you a clever little devil? You should have been in Slytherin. What were you, a Hufflepuff? I saw the yellow pinstripes on your socks the first time you visited.

_Fine_ then, let's discuss James.

I detest him in the present tense. Whether he's dead or alive makes no mark upon my hatred for the cocky, swaggering, over-confident, testosterone-fueled _cinder-block_ which was James Potter. He made my life at Hogwarts a living hell, allowing no moment of rest from their torment until my seventh year, when I finally mastered enough curses to keep him at bay. The amount of total degradation and humiliation I suffered at his hands—and the hands of his overbearing, thuggish cohorts—is monumental.

Make no mistake about my ethics, Mister Clarke. I was quite happy to see him dead. Being murdered by the Dark Lord was no doubt a terrifying death; I would have much preferred to see him struck by a lorry or fallen off a ladder. Even bloody _mushroom _poisoning and I would have been satisfied.

But no. The Dark Lord killed him, as well as his family, and made them all martyrs. With the exception of the son, who is a carbon-copy of his father in nearly every way.

Lily was…

She was…_misguided_, I believe. Even when we were children she was obsessed with restoring lost souls, giving friendship to those without companions. James Potter was another one of her little conquests, and if he followed her around like a besotted puppy, then that was simply a bonus. And how can I discredit this generous spirit of hers? Without it, she would have dismissed me like her sister. Merlin knows how things might have turned out if we hadn't become friends.

Hmph.

No, nothing. I only just realized I have been cursed by overly kind women. Why is it, Mister Clarke, that those with the gentlest spirits seem to be crushed? Either the world wicks away their compassion or they overestimate people's good spirits, and end up becoming destroyed because of it. Meanwhile, men like myself cheat and stab towards the top, and once we are there, we do not enjoy a minute of it—we spend our lives glancing over our shoulders, sleeping with one eye open, waiting for the backs we stepped on to seize retribution.

Merlin no, I don't regret my decisions in life. But does my mother? Or Lily? Would they have wished to be _less_ kind? These are the kind of things that keep me up at night, Mister Clarke.

Not _all_ of us stay up with these thoughts, Mister Clarke. Now I am curious. What keeps you up, Mister Clarke? Losing your family? Your professional career? What?

You're such a _wretched_ idealist, Mister Clarke.

So, essentially, you fear helplessness? Being trapped, unable to save someone? What a _martyr_. I should have known my therapist had a hero complex. That's why you like this job, isn't it? You like being the _rock_ in everyone's midst. The _sane one_. It would just break you to see a therapist, wouldn't it? To be trapped at home, collared by the Ministry—no _wonder_ you try so hard during these sessions. You _pity_ me, for my situation.

Don't try to backpedal. I'm right, aren't I?

Hmm. That's an interesting interpretation of your career. So you see yourself as more of a _conduit_ for other people's catharsis; an empty void which they can fill with their secrets and burdens, transferring the weight onto your own back.

Do your other patients realize the _power_ you have over them? Holding their secrets, with the promise that you will let them slip through your fingers—but in reality, you could do whatever you wanted with this information.

Well, I am a special case, I assume. The Ministry's protective shields must keep you from spilling too many of my thoughts. Still. I hardly think it's your fault people wish to deposit their secrets into your stronghold, but how much is _too_ much? Do you ever think that one day, under other people's burdens, you will simply _crack_? And then our positions will be reversed—I will be on the outside, and you shall be the jaded madman held behind glass

It's an interesting thought, isn't it?

So _pensive_, Mister Clarke. Have I given you too much food for thought?

Ah! Such a quick rebuttal. Yes, by all means, let us choose a different discussion. Who shall we discuss from my past, this time? Lucius Malfoy? Sirius Black? The Dark Lord himself? We have a nearly endless supply of acquaintances from my school years.

Someone from my _future_?

I have no future. There _is_ no one in my future, save more bungling brats who shall explode cauldrons and hex pimples off their own faces. Deprived of that, there is independent study and articles to write. Perhaps a book, so something of intelligence can be sitting on shelves.

Do I wonder about my legacy? Yes, of course. We all do, don't we? Don't you worry that years from now, no one will remember your name? That the people you helped promptly forgot about you, and they achieved greatness while letting you wallow with their pawned-off misery?

You say you don't care about it _now_. But ten years from now? Fifteen?

I am not a young man. You, however, are—how old is your child, Mister Clarke?

Eighteen months. So for eighteen months you have been a father, and for eighteen months you can be assured of your legacy. Your _child_, hopefully, will not forget you. But myself? I am nearly forty. There is very little of life I have not seen, and nothing left I desire to experience.

Again, you speak of companionship! How many times must I _tell_ you, Mister Clarke, I wish to be left _alone_? Must I throw _everyone_ out of this flat? Merlin's _wand_. If I wanted companionship I'd get a dog, although they lack intelligent thought—however I could probably get a better conversation out of it than most people.

Such polite redirection. You seem to be on the defensive this evening, have I startled you?

Interrogation, what an excellent word. You didn't expect me to be this argumentative, did you? You thought I was a poor broken soul, a caged bird, with a tortured past that would cry on your shoulder. How…_sweet_.

Hah! I _feel _particularly horrible tonight. Let me ask _you_ a question, Mister Clarke: what skill would you learn, if given the chance? How to read people more thoroughly? Occlumency? A new language?

A _Patronus_?

You're a _grown man_, how on earth have you not cast a successful Patronus charm? Did you pass your N.E.W.T.S, or simply close your eyes and muddle through them? Granted the charm is not an easy one to master, but a wizard of your age should have cast one by now.

Don't blame your blood status—I am _also_ a half-blood. Take pride in what you are, and recognize what you aren't.

Consider yourself fortunate, I have been casting Patronus charms for decades. Stand up. I am bored and you are no doubt frustrated with my inability to answer a direct question—take out your wand, we're going to have a little _lesson_. Don't be afraid, you're not a twelve year old boy. I will treat you like an adult, not one of my abysmal students.

Now. I want you to concentrate on a memory. Not even a happy memory, just a strong one. Your Patronus is a defender, it will keep you safe and allow you to channel a bit of yourself into open air. What a Patronus _is_, essentially, is your purity. Your _strength_. A Patronus is what a Dementor wishes to devour, but they can only destroy your soul, which is a pathetic shade of a thing compared with your fierceness.

Breathe deeply. Good.

When you try to think of your happiest memory, don't imagine Christmas morning or your first affection or some other some rot. Think of the love you give to your wife. Imagine your wedding day, the vows you took which magically bound two souls together—remember your _lifespan_, Mister Clarke. Feel it through your skin and breathe until you remember every detail about it.

Now.

_Expecto Patronum!_

Thank you. Yes, a doe. Half-grown.

I saw a shape within the midst you were fluffing around. Try again, don't imagine something silly, and remember what you love dearly, what you would give up to protect it, defend it. Pick a strong memory, one that is linked to who you are, what you want from life, what you've seen. Your Patronus is the essence of that.

Again!

What _are_ you thinking of? Freshly baked _biscuits_?

What is your wife's name?

Well, then, imagine Helen is out with your little girl, playing by the side of the street. There's an automobile coming around the corner, too quickly to see them, and your wife steps out into the road—you have a choice, to either push them out of the way and sacrifice yourself, or keep your own skin.

Are you a coward, Mister Clarke? What would you _do_ for your wife, your child, your _son_?

Make your _choice_, Mister Clarke! _Again!_

Well done.

An albatross, I might have guessed. You have unexpected qualities, Mister Clarke.

What memory did you think of, might I ask? Sit down while you tell me.

Did I not say to think of something powerful? Although I am surprised. Under normal circumstances, when a wizard thinks of something superficial, like your example of seeing your wife for the first time, the Patronus doesn't come to fruition. Truly it must have been quite a meeting.

Save me your romantic sensibilities, Mister Clark. I am surprised that you were able to produce a Patronus when reflecting back on the memory of _attraction_. There are people who see one another and their brains, as well as the magic in their veins, react positively; it is merely a signal that you are compatible with one another on a biological level. Nothing more, nothing less.

Oh, so defensive. I make no judgments on your wife, I am sure she is a lovely creature. She certainly seems capable of giving sound advice. What was it she said? 'He hides behind his unpleasantness to avoid further damage'? That stayed with me—I wrote it down on a piece of parchment. It's what I've done my whole life, to minimize scarring. I find it curious that a woman with no prior knowledge of me was able to make that assumption.

And it makes me wonder what you tell your wife about me. Do you say I'm 'difficult'? 'Jaded' perhaps, or your favorite word, 'emotionless'? Do you reflect on these sessions throughout the rest of the week?

…How _flattering_. Thank you for not divulging my information to your wife, although I am certain the Ministry's charms keeps you from telling much of anything to _anyone_.

Well then, my albatross friend, fly back to your nest and your wife. Practice your Patronus spell, happy memories wax and wane with the tide. You'll cherish them, when the time comes.

Happy New Year, Mister Clarke.

* * *

_No Hermione in this chapter. Ah well. I'm adoring this story, by the way. Hopefully Mr. Clarke has more of a character now—this is definitely not a second person sort of story, where YOU are the character, it's just oddly formatted. Sorry to anyone who was confused. Mr. Clarke is his own person/character, and he's got thoughts and whatnot too, but they're just not that important to Snape right now. **-nylex **_


	4. Session Six

**atonement**

[4]

* * *

Good evening, Mister Clarke.

There is absolutely no reason for you to be smiling so widely—the weather is miserable, with slush and ice and rain, and here you are grinning like a loon. Not to mention you're wearing those socks again. Such a Hufflepuff. I almost feel like deducting points from your House. Stop being so disgustingly _chipper_.

I am _always_ in a very poor mood. Tonight, especially so. This collar is…tiring. I feel as though I am not quite myself.

Bah. Humbug. As I've said before, the holidays were never my favorite time of year. Make yourself useful, Mister Clarke, throw another log on the fire.

What?

Oh, _that_. It's a blanket, Miss Granger knitted it. Rather lumpy and covered with hair from her wretched cat, but it is an appreciated gesture, nonetheless.

Hardly a visit. She stopped by, dropped off her gift, and then muttered something about research and vanished. Her visits have been steadily increasing, I have noticed, although they seldom last a quarter of an hour. She's yet to settle into a discernible pattern—I shall update you when she does.

Mm? Oh, very well then. Put the kettle on, I always enjoy peppermint tea with traumatic memories from my past.

Don't be ridiculous, of course they're not traumatic. What would you like to know?

…

Ah, _yes_, my school days. You do so enjoy badgering me about those.

What is there to say? I was friendless, quiet, and preferred the company of myself. I very seldom got detention and I was wildly unpopular, in part due to my nature I suppose. People can be such dullards, and I discovered quickly they dislike being informed of this. But I was always talented, I must admit, when it came to the Dark Arts. In addition to my naturallyrepellent aura, I believe some students feared me, in a small way.

That was how I met Mulciber, you know. He was such a sadist and so…_uncultured _about it. But there was something careless and irreverent about him—I minded his presence marginally less than the other students in my dormitory. Avery was his simpering little toady so in later years they became a package, but it was Mulciber who seemed most interested in my curses and potions. I imagine he was interested in my potions for the grades, as his family came from some small wealth and it was expected he turn out top marks. That was his little _hamartia_, his family. You find out people's weaknesses fairly quickly, you know. Growing up on Spinner's end.

Lucius was our ringleader. I was afraid of him until my second year, when I realized that he would do anything to defend his image; he spent more time on his reputation and his hair than actually fulfilling the threats he gave. He got Regulus to do the dirty work usually, which I must admit impressed me. Lucius's talent has always been dealing with people, and the form of manipulation he used on Regulus was quite…in-depth. The poor boy was absolutely _besotted_ with Lucius.

Ah, yes, the tea. Thank you, Mister Clarke.

Where was I? Regulus, that's right. Such filthy gossip, don't you agree?

…That's a hideously outdated sentiment. Of course Slytherins care about blood status, I've never met a single one who wasn't. But all of us cared for one another—our instincts of self-preservation never overwhelmed us, but there is kindness among snakes. Although I doubt you would know, as I imagine your interactions with the serpentine House were less than stellar, am I correct?

Of course.

No. No I was never quite taken with Lucius's charms—not completely, at any rate. Do not misunderstand me, there is a magnetism to the Malfoy title and the ceremony which surrounds it, an undeniable charisma which can be overpowering to the weaker-minded. No doubt Lucius would have loved to turn me into yet another simpering sycophant, following at his cloak hem like a House Elf. But I was never quite as lulled as Regulus.

…There was always a… admiration is not quite the word. _Understanding_ is not quite what I am looking for either. But although I shared little common ground with Lucius we became rather fast friends. I was poor, alone, and was not unused to the bullying and torments which were inflicted upon me. Lucius was, and still remains, a proud, flamboyant, preening man who fights with his nails as well as his wand.

Of course the bullying was not new. We did discuss my father briefly, did we not?

Fists, usually. Occasionally he would use his belt.

My mother? Oh, whatever was at hand. A chair. The wall. The dinner she cooked.

I remember—

No, nothing.

I remember he whipped her once. With his belt, over his lap, like she was a disobedient child. He had a fistful of her hair. I remember the dirt under his nails, how clean my mother's hair was. Normally she kept it pinned back, away…but it had come loose. Her wand was on the floor, she'd tried to use it against him and he'd snapped it. Like a twig. The snap of the belt, it was almost…hypnotic.

I was eight.

I don't remember.

I do not _remember_, Mister Clarke. Do not infer mediocrity upon my skills as a _Occlumens_—if it weren't for this blasted collar around my neck this conversation would be quite different _indeed_. I don't recall what I did. Probably I ran away upstairs and lost myself in a book or something of the sort, practicing magic with a stick I'd found out in the yard.

My mother was a weak, stupid woman. Don't pity her. She didn't deserve the husband she had, but there were opportunities she squandered—chances that were handed to her and she refused them.

How do I know? Because I offered to kill him for her.

Don't look so surprised. I was seventeen, and I knew more spells and Dark Magic than my professors. I was better learned in the art of deadly potions than my instructors and the top brewers at Hogwarts—I had a thousand opportunities to kill him, a thousand reasons, although I needed none of them.

What did she do? She got on her knees and begged me to leave him alone. To spare him. To leave her house and never return, because she loved the man who would smash his fist into her face for _spite_.

Perhaps I have not conveyed the depths of my father's despicable nature. He was a miserly man who excelled at games of chance and often would host card games, inviting coworkers and spending the night gambling. For all of his flaws he was an excellent gambler, although we never saw the fruits of it. On one of these nights, my mother came back late from work, dressed in her Wizarding robes, wearing her hair down. There were times when my father's drunkenness was a blessing; he was in a particularly jovial mood, and bellowed for Eileen to serve drinks, his _boys_ were parched. She did so, forcing a smile or two, and bid them good night.

He threw her against the walls only a few hours later, insisting that she was laughing and _flirting_ with his 'chums', and she needed to be put in her place. As though she were a dog.

Do you see now, Mister Clarke? This man, she begged for—pleaded, with tears in her eyes, to keep him alive. When I asked her to come with me she refused, and dug in her heels, remaining with him until the day of her death.

No. Of course I never saw her again. When I returned the next day I saw only my father, with my mother in the hospital, while he demanded to know what had happened. I refused to tell him, and when he made as if to strike me I reacted. My only regret is that I did not reach for my wand.

I spent the summer with Lucius and Regulus at Malfoy Manor. Lucius had long since graduated and Regulus had just received a job from the Dark Lord that summer. I received my Dark Mark that summer, before the bruises my father had left had fully faded.

Of course the Dark Lord sensed my weakness, he exploited it. I was grateful for the stability he offered me, the normality I became accustomed to at the Malfoy Manor. I had never been a child, but I became a man that summer. I knew myself more completely than I thought possibly—or I thought I did.

Lily. Lily was the one who…changed things.

We met at school that autumn, and she wanted to apologize for being childish. We were both being childish. But the Mark…I was not who I used to be, any longer. Neither was she.

That is very _sweet_ of you, Mister Clarke. We did not live happily ever after. I watched her die and held her body in the ashes of her ruined home, while her newborn son screamed in the background. And then I left them there, because the tattoo I have permanently emblazoned across my arm was burning into my _soul_, and I knew I was being Summoned by whatever remained of the Death Eaters—I left them there in the wreckage of their house, with that infant squalling in his crib.

I have no wish to discuss anything further, tonight. Please show yourself out, Mister Clarke.

* * *

_Upping the rating on this because there's going to be some fairly graphic scenes of child abuse/dubcon (not with Snape) coming up. Kinda squicky. Thanks to my fabulous beta, **araeofsomething**, as usual~ :-) -_ **nylex**


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